


A Date I Can't Escape

by AnotherWorld3111, KaenNoMai



Series: i've got you brother [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Episode: s14e12 Prophet and Loss, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Dean Winchester, Ma'lak Box (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherWorld3111/pseuds/AnotherWorld3111, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaenNoMai/pseuds/KaenNoMai
Summary: kaen: we thought it was funny that while everyone was doing the ten year challenge on social media, dean was also doing his own ten year challenge aboutbeing in a coffin.ya know, just supernatural things. we made a fic. enjoy.AW3111:...or.The one where Dean has his own ten year challenge, but his aren't as fun.





	A Date I Can't Escape

**Author's Note:**

> kaen: so for once it was AW3111 that took forever to finish this  
> AW3111: l i f e g o t i n t h e w a y. Plus a mother of a multichapter fic  
> kaen: and since when do you let get in the way of fanfic?  
> AW3111: Since another fanfic took over!! Sue me (dont)!  
> kaen: but it’s destiel so it can take a break. it’s not that important  
> AW3111: uh huh. How’s that long fic of yours coming btw?  
> kaen: oh fuck off. It’s only taken me what? a year and a half to write half of it? and then figure out that i’m going to rewrite half of the part i did write?  
> AW3111: I love you too. And pray tell, define ‘half of it.’ That you’re gonna rewrite, jesus don’t you dare @ me for taking forever  
> kaen: shush.  
> AW3111: Anyway. So. She waited for ages, and then suddenly she facetimed and I _fucked life_ (not in the fun way I’m not that lucky) and we finished this in like.. One and a half hours? Two? Ish?  
> kaen: well i’m proud of us :’)  
> AW3111: And I’m proud of us too . I love it when we write together. Pity we don’t do it often. Bless the patient souls who subscribe to our series *snorts*  
> kaen: we’re both very busy. but we do our best. i hope y’all enjoy!  
> AW3111: What she said.

Dean snapped his eyes open, but the darkness didn’t recede. He was laying on his back in complete darkness. He stayed still, breath shallow and quick as he waited for the torture to start. 

It felt like a long time, but Dean knew that time was an illusion in Hell. Alastair had played with his sense of time before, stretching torture for years, and making breaks feel like seconds.

Dean struggled to breathe. Was the air getting thinner?

He breathed again and he started to panic. It was. He tried to sit up and roughly hit his head before getting too far. Panicked, Dean felt around the box, and it  _ was _ a box, with blind hands, desperately searching for a way out.

There wasn't one. 

Dean tried to calm himself, take stock of the situation. He felt around in his pockets, heart soaring at the feeling of something metallic in his pocket. He grabbed the familiar object in his hands and flipped the lighter open. It took a few tries before a flicker of light was produced, but finally, finally, Dean could see.

It was a coffin.

It was a  _ fucking coffin _ .

The precious few seconds it took to register this fact were a precious few seconds that Dean didn’t have. Dean started to gasp, the fire burning up the air in the coffin. 

He snapped the lighter shut too late. Panic gripped Dean, the air getting thin. It was instinct for Dean, at this point, that when he was in trouble to call for his brother.

“Sam?” Dean yelled with all the breath that he had. Silence met his desperate question, but he had to try one more time. “Sammy?”

Dean held his breath, listening, even though he didn’t know what he was listening for. 

Silence.

Frustrated, Dean beat the top of the coffin desperately. He slowed his punches, though, when he felt the roof start to give. With desperate new hope, Dean raked his nails over the top of the coffin, scratching away with new vigor.

Splinters embedded themselves under his nails, streaks of red left on the chipping wood above him. Still, Dean pushed on, sick terror mixing with the resigned certainty that this was yet another hallucination of Alastair’s, waiting for the torture to start. 

So it came as a shock when he finally broke out of the coffin and it was  _ soil,  _ just plain soil, that fell through the hole in the top, instead of lava, maggots, hellhounds, or anything else that Alastair could dream up. 

It was such a shock that Dean stilled and let himself be covered in dirt before his burning lungs urged him to move. 

He dug upwards, swallowing dust and dirt but moving upwards regardless. 

He was so close to the surface, he was almost –

He took a lungful of precious air – and rapidly inhaled water. Dean choked, his chest tightening. The water was already hitting the back of his mouth and went down his throat. Dean coughed, but on every inhale the water went up his nose again. Black and red spots were already clouding his vision, but it was all overwhelmed by the blinding white in his chest that was screaming for oxygen, his lungs desperately expanding in an attempt for air but only bringing in more water. It  _ hurt,  _ his chest was tight and his ears were ringing, his head felt ready to collapse. Dean squirmed, desperately trying to push himself upwards or away, wherever he could get some damn air to  _ breathe  _ already, when something snagged on his foot – 

Alastair cackled evilly over him, just his one hand holding on to the back of the hellhound’s collar. Dean grunted with what precious air he had left, the hellhound gnawing at his leg. 

“Now, now, now, Dean. We don’t want to rob the doggy of his chew toy, do we?”

 

Dean blinked, gasping. Water, he was still surrounded by water, and even through his diminishing vision he could tell it wasn’t red, it wasn’t blood he was drowning in. But he was still drowning, and unless he did something, that wasn’t going to change.

Looking down, his eyes streaming with tears – or maybe it was just the saltwater – he barely managed to make out his foot in the growing darkness. He was stuck, ankle twisted in seaweed, the innocent green leaves floating merrily around and dragging him back into the coffin he just came out of.

A coffin?

Dean gasped, trying to get air and clawing at dirt. He both needed to get out but dreaded it - he needed the air but Alastair was undoubtedly waiting and Dean didn’t want to see what was next for him. Finally, his hands latched onto something hard and stable, and he flailed, trying to propel himself upwards to freedom. The rest of his body was caught under the earth, something holding him tight that didn’t want to let him go. He tried inhaling, a soft sort of sound that undercut the pounding in his lungs and throat, and the dark spots that were steadily growing bigger.

Dean stomped with his legs, sure that the hellhound was still using his leg as a chew toy, both trying to get free and trying to get to the surface. If he used the hound as a platform and kicked just right - 

 

He was free, his foot was out, but blood was seeping, and with it, he could practically sense Alastair’s glee, the hellhounds barking, but he couldn’t care anymore, not when he was free. That’s all he could think about, he could practically see the air he needed, and with weakening arms, he pushed forward again, legs kicking even as his heart pumped faster, knowing he was leaving a bloody trail behind for the hounds to lap up. Ignoring it all, ignoring everything, Dean pushed, the darkness disappearing behind him as he got closer and closer to the surface. 

His throat started rolling softly, as if it was trying to swallow to get air. He winced as a sun’s ray got in his eyes blinding him for a moment, but a smile erupted on his lips anyway, because if he could see the sun, then Dean for sure was close, and with the last bit of energy he had, Dean stroked one more time –

And inhaled. 

Fresh, sweet oxygen cleared his senses, but with the lack of water he was free to cough it all out. His legs worked desperately as he fought to expel the water clogging his lungs, more and more blood trickling out of the wound on his ankle, and his arms were flailing, vision going spotty and weird for one frightening second.

Dean inhaled, desperately, a loud and wet noise. Eyes wide, he took his in his surroundings, mouth already forming around the one word ingrained in his very being. 

“Sammy?”

His voice was hoarse, his throat raw from desperately gagging, trying to get air and trying to expel the water. His face twisted in distaste, the scent of seawater and fish finally making itself clear, yet still, he turned in a circle treading water, trying in vain to look for his brother.

“Sam!”

He was alone. All alone, in the middle of an ocean. Where Sam and Cas had dumped him, in the Ma’lak box, to ensure Michael was trapped for eternity and with no possible means of destroying this earth as well.

Except,  _ Dean _ was out now, and the Ma’lak box lay open and empty, still all the way down in the depths of the ocean.

If he was out… where was Michael?

Dean spun around again, desperation and horror flooding him as he searched, as if the archangel would be swimming right beside him. But no, he was the vessel, so if there wasn’t a trail of grace floating around, then Michael still had to be in him…

Dean closed his eyes, teeth clenching and nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily. Visions flashed and he roved through memories, both real and fake, courtesy of the archangel he’d been housing for the past… however long. Finally, Dean reached the place where he last remembered shoving Michael in, with Sam and Cas’s help.

It lay open, the contents within strewn out on the floor of the bar. Scorch marks stained the floor and walls, emphasizing the dents in wooden and metallic objects.

Michael was nowhere to be found.

Dean gasped, his throat screaming in agony. This time, it was evident that the water dripping down his face was mingled with tears.

“Sammy!” He tried, one more time, but there was no point to his call.

Michael was gone, and Dean had no idea where.

The world could be in flames by now, but he was still in the middle of the ocean.

Waves pushed him side to side, the only warning he got before one that had crested from a mile away drew closer and larger, and crashed over him.

Everything went black.

He woke up.

Dean’s eyes snapped open, and for a second he was lost, trying to remember but trying to forget. The walls weren’t familiar, but had he been here before?

A soft noise came from the other side of the wall and Dean latched onto it. 

Sam. It was Sammy, his brother was right there, on the other side of that wall. He breathed slowly, trying to calm his ragged breathing. He was… In a motel room, and Sam was there, and… 

His eyes closed again, and he tentatively dug in, searching -

“Dean?” His brother had opened the door, snapping him from his thoughts. He turned to look at his brother, and couldn’t help but desperately take in the sight in front of him. His brother was alive, standing, and well, if tired going by the bags under his eyes.

“Hey,” he croaked out, throat still rough from his desperate breathing.

“You okay?” Sam asked, worry twisting his features. 

Dean paused, actually unsure of the answer himself.

A low chuckle resonated within his mind, and it was all the answer Dean needed to know.

“Yeah,” he lied, trying and knowing he failed at a smile. “I’m fine, Sammy.

_ “Well that was a lovely little dream, wasn’t it?” _ The voice came from the back of his mind.

“Bullshit.” Sam was shooting him his ever faithful bitchface, but his tone was still low, serious. Sam glanced at the wall beside the headboard of Dean’s face. “You wanna try that again?”

Dean followed Sam’s gaze and saw the deep scratches embedded with blood in the wall. A throbbing unnoticed by him until now was flaring under his fingernails, bringing his gaze down to his hands. 

His fingers and nails were torn and bloody, matching the deep gouges on the wall. He winced, almost as a reflex instead of as a conscious reaction to the pain. 

“ _ My, my. I don’t think you were as unaffected as you’d like to think. Tell me, Dean. If this is what you do in your sleep… I dare wonder, what would happen if you were awake?” _

Dean chuckled, dryly. “Yeah, I… Guess not. I don’t know.”

Sam sighed, eyes darting around the room. He really did look tired, and for all that it was Dean storing an unwilling archangel in his head, Sam looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Dean snorted. He supposed that line of thought wasn’t too off, because if Dean screwed this up… then it really would fall on Sam to clean up his mess.

Not like it was the first time Sam had to do so. 

Sam strode over to sit beside Dean on his bed. He glanced down at his injured hands, something dark flashing in his eyes, but when he looked back up to meet Dean’s gaze, there was only sadness emanating from him.

_ “Are you sure you want to get in another coffin, Dean? I promise that I can make it worse than Hell…” _

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean said needlessly, trying to reassure his little brother. He really wasn’t, though, and they both knew that.

Sam chuckled humorlessly, a single sound that was cut too short as he zoned back in on Dean’s hand. “Yeah, sure.” There was a bite to his disbelief in his voice, and all Dean could do was look away.

A moment passed, but then Sam stood up again, a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We should probably get that cleaned up.” He said.

Dean looked at his nails. Blood and plaster had replaced the tips of his fingernails, the wallpaper color changing under his nail bed.

For a second, just a fraction of a second, the running walls of red from Alastair’s personal torture chamber flashed in his mind. The walls running, red, the deafening sounds of screams echoing in his ears, the air down there that almost  _ tasted  _ blood-soaked, and the soft sound of Alastair chuckling as he ripped his ribs out of his chest, still somehow heard amongst everything else.

Michael hummed.  _ “If you think that was anything… oh, Dean. I could do way better.” _

Dean stiffened, but realizing Sam’s hand was on his shoulder, stood to mask the action. His brother didn’t look fooled, but Dean was quick to redirect his focus. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, trying again to make his response sound a little less wavering than it came out on the first try. “Yeah. Don’t really know how you’re gonna fix this, but sure.” Dean shrugged a shoulder, throwing a half-assed smile that Sam didn’t even bother to return.

“Rinse it off in the bathroom. I’ll get the whiskey.”

They stood there for a second, Dean’s eyes trained on his hands, Sam practically glaring at him. Dean was just going to start for the bathroom, blinking as he realized they’d been standing there silently for just a tick too long when Sam spoke up.

“You sure you want to get in that box?” Sam asked, eyes pinning Dean, demanding a truthful answer.

Dean licked his lips, hesitating. Michael continued to hum and laugh pleasantly in his head.

No, he didn’t.

“You know I’ve got to, Sammy.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title derived from Way Out There by Lord Huron


End file.
